In the Depths of Madness
by Powersocke Prime
Summary: Part II of the Necromancer Cycle. Rhodulf Ironstaff, of the Ironstaff lineage, inherited the gift of magicka at an early age. When he resolved to join the College of Winterhold, he met with a kindred spirit. This person would thenceforth be Rhodulf's companion. But soon, it will turn out that there is something darker within his soul than the first impression might have suggested.
1. Chapter 1

I

As I lie here on my deathbed in the old, slightly rundown farmhouse, with its overgrown gambrel roof and the small tool shed swaying back and forth from the wind in the withering garden wildly growing throughout the backyard, my last will and testament are right beside me on the small, rustic end table with the little drawer I have stored so many of my personal belongings in.

Some, very old and antique, stemming from times long past. I, at the sight of one especially peculiar item, came to the conclusion that, before my soul goes to leave the Mundus, there is a story I have to tell. And although it repulses me with great force to finally break the silence and lift the curtains I have laid over this part of my past and the story of origin of the aforementioned thing, I have no choice but to tell it, to give myself guilt-free to Aetherius and to possibly aid the people of all of Tamriel.

For what I'm about to relay to you are the most horrible and disquieting events a person could experience. But I am getting ahead of myself, for there are a great many things to know before one could understand the underlying implications the curious paper I now hold in my hands present.

And as I let the silverish-brown feather of my quill fly across this manuscript, I remember whence it one day flew to me. Inspecting it, I can still hear the bird that dropped it so many years ago, while flying past me as I escaped from a dire peril and henceforth used it to write down much of what I had in my past endured. In fact, right now, looking out the thin glass panes embedded in the wall to my left, I can see three of them, hear them whistling a beautiful tune, just as if they've come today to accompany my soul on its journey to the afterlife. And albeit I can feel Aetherius tugging at my soul, the awesome realm of Sovngarde beckoning me, it's not yet time to set aside my parchment, quill and ink.

For I have a story to tell, even if of stark terribleness, reaching down into the innermost fathoms of my very being.

I have lived the bulk of my childhood and youth here on this farmstead, close to the border of Falkreath hold. My ancestors built it eras ago, in 2E366, and at this time, agriculture prospered greatly, enabling my forefather and architect of the house, Rudgeir Ironstaff, to construct my ancestral home on the plot of land it now occupies. Rudgeir's ability to construct this farm and till the fertile, crop supporting soil wasn't his only proficiency though. For you see, our lineage, notwithstanding the fact it was of Atmoran-Nordic descent, not only produced stout warriors and skilled farmers.

Every so often, a couple generations between one another, one branch of our family would bear a magically gifted child, rare among Nords.

And so it was that Rudgeir Ironstaff, my ancestor from times long since gone, was the first of our blood to inherit the gift of magicka.

When he first discovered his proficiency in the art of mending wounds with only his bare hands and one day, got into a fight with a neighbouring boy, or so the story goes, he came out not only victorious but appeared to be entirely unscathed. Upon this discovery, the superstitious folk of nearby Falkreath began to shun our family. A couple years later in his youth, he attended the then freshly opened to newcomers College of Winterhold to hone his craft. Years later still, when Rudgeir was in his mid-thirties, his restoration magic proved to be so powerful the head of the College at that time awarded him the Iron Staff that would later take its place as the family name.

The staff amplified the magic of its user greatly and, by use of which, Rudgeir made some prodigious coin, teaching young apprentices in the art. In his fifties, he retired from the College however and settled down in the area near Falkreath as a farmer, constructing the very house I have spent my early years in and now lie here, waiting for the merciful heavens. And the Iron Staff? It is still in my possession and was handed down through the generations from one gifted Nord to the next. And as fate would have it, I, too, am one of those gifted by the blood of the Iron Staff.

II

As I have told before, I spent most of my childhood and youth on this very farmstead, mostly helping my mother and father with their daily struggles in keeping the farm alive and well, growing crops, selling produce and tending to the livestock my family owned. I still remember feeding the cows, gathering eggs from the chicken pen and regularly visiting the stable to tend to our two horses, Snowflake and Icewind.

One day, while I was out riding Icewind at twelve years of age I believe, I comfortably sat on our stout black steed, traversing the Falkreath hold in quest of discovery for I was, and always have been, the adventurous sort. I rode him through Falkreath's woods that day, observing how the birds flew from tree to tree, hopping from branch to branch, the green grass being stomped by Icewind's hooves and the warming rays of the sun being reflected in his dark blue eyes. Soon we rode across a small river near the actual town of Falkreath, when all of a sudden, Icewind lost grip on the mossy, overgrown pebbles lining the river's edge, slipped and was pulled down by gravity, onto the stones lying about and broke his left foreleg whereby I was thrown off the saddle and into the mud with superior force.

I felt a painful crack in my jaw upon impact and quickly discovered that it was broken as well. I struggled to get up again, dusting off my tunic, now in tatters, with one hand while carefully holding my aching jaw with the other, barely containing an agony-filled scream for I could imagine how great the pain would become should I dare move my mouth. I then proceeded to limp to the fallen horse, Icewind being gravely injured. A disjointed bone protruded from the leg, presumably having ripped its flesh in the process of breaking. An awful sight. I got sick from looking at it but despite all that, lifted my right hand off my likewise broken jaw, whimpering slightly, and tended to the horse's broken leg as best I could. In an effort to push the protruding, blood dripping bone into its rightful position again, I gripped it firmly with both hands and shoved in brutal fashion, causing Icewind to kick with its hind legs and neigh agonisingly.

When the bone was set into place, I felt a surge of comforting warmth flow through my palms and into the beloved animal, magically mending the gaping wound, realigning flesh and bone, sinews and blood vessels until, at last, the horse's skin closed and fur yet again grew where once the injury had been. Not quite realizing what just happened, I gasped in awe at my glowing hands, inadvertently opening my mouth prompting me to scream out in pain, causing even greater suffering as I opened my mouth further to scream louder and finally, clutching my jaw bone with both hands, the pleasant warmth filling my body and face this time. I could feel how my jaw moved around within my flesh, the fractured pieces and marrow connecting to each other in a loving embrace of magical energy engulfing my head and, to an extent, mind.

Being both shocked and utterly perplexed, awestruck at what my hands were apparently capable of doing, I saddled up quickly and rode Icewind right home to tell my parents what had just transpired. Upon retelling of the event, my parents both took a deep breath and contently looked at each other. Then they both nodded and motioned me to follow them into the cellar wherein we approached a big locked, wooden chest with iron ornaments and decorative, tribal carvings that stood mysteriously in the back of the old vault that is our basement.

My father then produced half a key from his tunic, my mother in turn the other half belonging to it. Together, they joined both parts with an audible clicking noise, at which I flinched in uncertainty for a moment. My father approached me, gently placing it into my opened palms, telling me to unlock that large, wooden chest.

A peculiar work of superior Nord craftsmanship, that key was designed to keep safe the most valuable of possessions. By breaking it apart, one was able to hide both parts in different places and one had to join them together in order to unlock the lock it was intended to guard. It was quite huge in fact, so huge that, when put together, it would fill out the entire space of my hands. Inspecting it more closely, an interlocking mechanism of great intricacy was revealed, unable for any locksmith to reproduce the full key if only one half was provided. Even the key's tips were designed independently from each other, adding another layer of security. When I firmed my grasp around its back end and approached the chest, I felt an aura of a strangely vibrating energy surge through the air around me.

As if driven by this magical sense more so than by deliberate action, I slid the key into the locking mechanism, turned it right with great difficulty, noticing a loud click, and the locks on either side of the key hole sprang open, ready to reveal the chest's contents. I pushed up the lid and before my eyes revealed itself an iron staff and a blue book. This is how I came into the possession of the Iron Staff of Rudgeir.

III

The staff was fashioned from solid iron, approximately 160cm in total length, with an upwardly spiralling pattern engraved in the metal surface, depicting the sun, the two moons Secunda and Masser and the stars. On its tip there sat mounted a great gem glowing with energy. As I reached out to touch it, it felt as if I was unwillingly drawn to its hilt, involuntarily tightening my grip around it as soon as my hand connected with the strikingly warm metal.

It felt as if whatever power I seemed to contain within me, flowed into the staff, collecting itself in the magical crystal and surged right back into me with stunning puissance, causing me to immediately stand upright as opposed to the kneeling position I had assumed prior to holding the artifact.

An awesome feeling spread throughout my body and the old stick gleamed with a pleasant radiance in a unique display of antediluvian might. As I held it in both hands, a broad smile forming on my hitherto curious, inquisitive face, my father's expression brightened and, I recall his words as if he just spoke them, went on to tell me this:

"My son, heir to the proud Ironstaff bloodline, this is the artifact of your ancestors - the Iron Staff, once belonging to Rudgeir Ironstaff, passed down the generations onto the proficient wizards, warlocks, witches and mages of our descent, now passed onto you. This is a great honor and with your restorative talents, shall serve as a force for good in a world of chaos. Take this magical gift from the Aedra and venture forth to grant light and hope to those in need and to cast radiance in all the dark corners of the world."

With these words, I now knew that the Iron Staff of Rudgeir would, henceforth, be called the Iron Staff of Rhodulf the Younger, son to Rhodulf the Elder, owner of the Ironstaff farmstead. Shortly after, my father proceeded to pick up the blue book, also encased in the chest the staff was in previously, handing it to me, prompting me to open it. As I examined the volume, it turned out to be a beginner's guide to the magic school of restoration.

In the following days I studied it closely, reading through it multiple times over whereby I memorized every lesson this book contained. I frequently went into the woods to put my newfound knowledge to the test, applying my powers to direly injured animals and even some slightly wounded travelers who crossed paths with me. I would do this for about seven years, honing my craft, developing new techniques all the time. I was a skilled healer then, albeit not entirely content with my abilities.

My ineptitude to mend greater wounds of more profound and grueling nature such as dismemberment of body parts or worse drove me to resolve to strive for greater power and control over the might I've been granted.

Thusly, on my nineteenth birthday, I decided it was time to set aside my old life and leave my homestead in quest of joining the venerable College of Winterhold, a fabled place of magical wonder and knowledge. And although the motives I hitherto entertained were indeed noble, my time at the College is the most regretful time of my life. For something sinister arrogated to foreshadow itself on the second day of my journey to greater science.

IV

In 4E317, on a rather sunny turdas, I finally resolved to pack my belongings, staff, book and some provisions for the long and arduous journey from Falkreath to Winterhold included, and ventured forth into the unknown. I decided to travel on foot, since I didn't want to take one of the horses from our farm, at risk of leaving them in the icy, snowy gusts of Winterhold and I also denied the exploitation of a horse carriage as I saw this grand undertaking as a sort of pilgrimage. I boldly intended to, on my travels, help any stragglers and passersby who might require my expertise likened to some sort of Samaritan free-of-charge cleric, both for my own conscience and also in hopes of pleasing the Divines with my actions.

I beforehand calculated that I'd need approximately two days, sleeping in an inn included. So on day one, I ever so quickly advanced through the lands, donning a white garb, staff in hand, coming across the occasional pilgrim or wanderer seeking aid. As appeared to be obvious from my looks, I fancied myself a benevolent cleric and soon, word would spread about my favourable deeds. Little did I know I was in the process of attracting unwanted attention. On that day's night, I stopped at Nightgate Inn, northeast of Whiterun and west of Windhelm, having traversed a majority of the way on the path to Winterhold which lay to the north of Nightgate Inn.

On my way to my eventual resting place, I wandered through Helgen and Riverwood, whence I procured a dagger and a charged, greater soul gem respectively, the first being for protection from possible bandits and the second to have a spare charge for my staff if need be. Concerning the dagger, which I to this day kept for a grim reason of memory to be disclosed later, I was not particularly savvy in the art of swordsmanship but I indubitably thought that it might just come in handy later down the line.

From Riverwood I took the road next to the river flowing idly by it to get to Whiterun, wherein I took a brief rest from all the treading and wandering and had myself a few gulps of water and a rejuvenating bite of a roasted venison chop within the city premises. I refilled my water at the local water supply and as dusk started to approach ever so slowly, resolved to toil all the way through to Nightgate Inn, lest nightfall arrived, catching me unprepared in the wilderness.

I trod past the ancestral tomb of Korvanjund and made a wrong turn at first which led me to the Shadowed Grove thither I didn't intend to stride and rather swiftly, turned back at the sight of one of those dubious looking, greenly radiating tree-women I would later be educated to call Spriggans. Eventually though, after making my way through some dense shrubbery, I was back on track and from that point forward, quickly arrived at Nightgate Inn just as night came about.

Praising myself for the impeccable timing I appeared to have, I couldn't help but notice how desolate and abandoned the area presented itself to be. I couldn't even spot hares or falcons, much less men or mer. Even the radiant glass panes in the partly rundown log walls of the building, indicating a presence of at least some person, didn't reassure me too greatly. Perhaps it was for the strange glow these windows emitted, maybe the horribly bent shadows of the wooden beams from inside cast onto the glistening snow. Or belike it was the fact that I didn't pick up on any chatter, conversation or crashing of mugs and stools that are usually so prominent among establishments such as these.

Notwithstanding all of the aforementioned, I didn't let myself be deterred from having a good night's rest in the tavern. And after all, exhaustion from a long day's voyage set in, making my feet grow weary and my eyes grow heavy with tiredness, so I had to rest here all the same. Now, if I had known what shadowy figure would then henceforth be my companion and what implications his presence had, I'd have toiled through in darkness and fatigue, finishing my journey that night. But alas, I did not foresee the events that were to unfold.

Albeit feeling slightly uneasy at this uncannily lonely place with a battered, peaked roof and partly broken overhang above the entrance door, I stepped in regardless, immediately greeted by a warm fireplace, a smiling bartender and several vacant benches where, in most other taverns, patrons would enjoy a good stein of beer or a nice, warming mug of ale or mead amidst arguments of slurred speech and cheerful laughter.

That was until I spotted one other patron besides me, sitting at an otherwise unoccupied table at the far end of the room to the left, being partly obfuscated by an ornately carved wooden support beam stretching upwards from the floor all the way to the horizontally aligned logs, stabilizing the creaking ceiling over our heads. I took about five steps forward, heading towards the innkeeper, when I was able to get a closer look at the mysterious patron.

He just sat there, his back facing the door. He wore an apprentice's mage robe, its hood obscuring the man's features. The ornate and unquestionably enchanted tunic which I inferred to be originating from the College I was headed towards, flapped in the ensuing gust of wind produced when the inn door slammed shut from the blizzard that just formed outside, but the patron didn't move.

He continually raised his mug, gently slurping the presumably burning liquid contained within. Notwithstanding his dubiousness, I proceeded to step forward and up to the bartender asking for a room to stay the night and for a mug of warm mead and a hot venison stew to warm my frozen insides that have been marred from the harsh climate in this area. Though I am a Nord, even we can get cold at times, especially after an indefatigable traveling such as mine, with barely any rest.

And so, the owner shewed me my room by pointing to the left from him before asking me in a pleasant voice to take a seat at one of the vacant tables in wait for my food and drink that were to arrive shortly. Luckily, I made a couple of septims on the way to the inn by helping other travelers such as myself, donating to my cause and pilgrimage and so, I handed the innkeeper the coin. Upon the gold changing pouches, I moved towards one of the evidently ancient benches, moaning under my weight as I sat down and waited for my order to arrive to my sparsely candle-lit table. Suddenly I noticed out of the corner of my eye the shady figure standing up, his mug still in hand, heading in my general direction. And this is how, at the end of the first day, I met him.


	2. Chapter 2

V

As he closed in, he gently pushed back his hood with his left hand while still holding onto his mug with the other, illuminating his features in the yellow-orangey light of the inn's fireplace. His skin was pallid and his hair and beard, both quite short, were white-grey, albeit his overall complexion hinting at a middle aged Imperial of rather slender stature. His eyes a deep blue, focused and alive. He approached me and reached out, his hand making a greeting gesture. I involuntarily shook hands with him, his face lighting up with pleasure. He took a seat beside me, placing his mug on the wooden, sparsely lit table, when my own order arrived.

Upon observing me and my belongings closely, he inquired as to my destination and whether or not I was headed for the College of Winterhold and, upon my corroboration, he became a little excited, smiling all over his face. Introducing himself as an apprentice member of the College of Winterhold currently studying the magic school of restoration by the name of Marcus, who gained admission to the College only a month prior, he told me he was just returning from a voyage to retrieve some form of special soul gem that had allegedly been hidden in a far-off cave and.

Based on Marcus' preliminary findings, the artifact seemed to be capable of trapping both black and white souls in equal measure without it able to be explicitly classified as a 'black' soul gem, which made it rather curious. As Marcus told this tale he harboured a queer amazement at the notion of the gem's capabilities but I didn't think much of it. Every apprentice of the College is abuzz about their first venture on behalf of the more experienced mages and scholars, after all.

We went on to have a rather lively conversation about the nature of restoration magic as I, too, am adept at the art of mending one's injuries. I revealed myself to be the current prodigy of the Ironstaff clan down in Falkreath hold to the south, telling him my name and explaining as to how and when I discovered my natural talent for the healing light and comfortable radiance Marcus also was proficient in. As soon as I revealed my identity, Marcus became fluttered somewhat, having clearly heard of the fabled iron staff our lineage possessed, and demanded I exhibit it to him.

Obliging in his request, excited to have met a fellow restorician, I handed it over. His eyes widened as he inadvertently tightened his grip around its hilt, in the same fashion I once had, feeling the surge of power rush through him with primordial might. He then returned it back to me in deep gratitude to have experienced such a marvel and proposed that we, on the following morning, would travel the last bit of the way to the College of Winterhold together.

Finishing my meal in agreement, we both went to sleep in our respective rooms shortly after, Marcus looking content at the new and pleasant acquaintance at hand. I slept soundly that night, having met an avid healer such as him, causing great reassurance for the oncoming trip. Had I known prior as to what events would henceforth unfold, I wouldn't have had such a good night's rest. However, I didn't, and as such, when I laid down on the surprisingly soft mattress, covering myself with the coarsely sewn linen blanket the barren establishment provided, I snuffed out the candle on the end table next to the bed and dozed off quickly, satisfied in knowing, or rather believing, to have discovered a friend among the cold, snowy lands and icy peaks and glaciers of Skyrim.

I waked early by dawn of the next morning, feeling refreshed upon having slept well despite the meager quality of my resting place. I got up, packed my things and opened the door to the inn. Marcus already stood at the counter, awaiting most eagerly my presence. When I got close he proposed in an impassioned demeanour we head to Winterhold right after breakfast. And after I ordered a mug of water and some bread whereas he was having some mead and a grilled chicken breast, we ventured forth, leaving the inn, headed northeast for the College. Marcus knew the paths leading to and fro the academical institution well for he was a member of the opulent College. We traversed the roads, ever more frozen, in surprisingly quick fashion so that we, at noon, arrived in the town of Winterhold.

Winterhold was, even back then, 64 years ago, not exactly what one would call a bustling city. Sitting atop a misty, blizzard-ravaged peak concealed from afar by icy clouds, it was almost always snowing there and with all the frigid downpour, not many people were inclined to set foot in this cold, dark place not even the most blazing of daylight could touch for the sun's rays failed to penetrate the thick layer of shades and vapours that hung over the area.

And apart from a scarcely visited tavern opposite of a rundown general goods store, there wasn't anything too significant about the settlement save for its acrid frigidity. The only people who regularly could be seen traveling on the road hither and thither were the guards of Winterhold and the mages of the College, the latter of which rarely leaving the institution's premises.

Without stopping by either the shop or the tavern, we headed straight for the College entrance. Being halted at the precipice of the partly broken, dangerous appearing bridge leading up to the College grounds proper by an Altmer lady, Marcus was granted passage at once whilst I was requested to first prove my ability to even cast any spell in the first place as to not waste their time in granting me passage as well, unknowing whether or not I was worth the effort educating.

Having felt a little confused and hurt somewhat at that remark, fate seemed to smile on me that day, for behind me, a small, limping, injured snow rabbit crossed the road. I approached the fluffy animal, gently lifting it off its paws and into my hands, letting the comforting radiance of my healing hands transform its broken hind leg back into a fully operational limb - painless and within seconds. I set it down slowly onto the soft snow watching it hippity-hop away with joy and turned to face the Altmer woman who, despite my efforts, scoffed at this meager display of healing, proclaiming that "anyone could do that", remarking that I was, in no way, shape or form, special and unfit for the College.

Determined to gain admission, I resolved to practice something queer and obscene and, in retrospect, it probably was the stupidest action I ever took, though stupefying it sure was to the mocking, frowning Altmer witch. I grabbed the dagger I acquired a while back and stabbed myself in the left arm, slicing it wide open, proceeding to rend the flesh, completely cutting it down to the bone which I broke by slamming the dripping, hot, gaping wound on the bridge's pole, causing a nastily loud cracking noise, spilling blood on the floor and spraying small pieces of flesh and bone on my own as well as the Altmer's garments, all the while containing the most agony-filled of screams at the wave of numbing pain that spread burningly through my body.

Stunned in shock and almost gagging, her jaw dropped at my mad act, when all of a sudden her eyes gleamed in disbelief as I took out my iron staff from my robe, completely repairing my arm without a trace of there ever being any injury done to it in the first place, thereby also eliminating the sharp and grueling pain I went through.

Reverent, the Altmer remarked how insane I was but offered me passage regardless, telling me that it'd have been enough to just show her the staff, for she knew well of its history and origin. Feeling kind of calvish at my fervent action just a second ago, I thanked her quickly, ashamed as I was, and, together with Marcus, traversed the feeble appearing stone crossing that hung menacingly over a bottomless pit, leading to the College proper.

After having evaded the hostile gusts that blew from either side unrelentingly, the great cyclopean gate to our destination magically opened and I had officially gained admission to this hub of magical learning and rich history.

VI

Marcus and I now stood in the snow-coated College courtyard, before us towering in primordial beauty the partly frozen, stony likeness of Shalidor, the first archmage, preserved in an excellently cut statue. The art of masonry truly impressed me. It stood majestically shimmering amidst a couple of ice-accustomed trees here and there and, of course, the great College building itself.

Marcus was quick to propose showing me around but not before he delivered the strange soul gem to the mage who requested it. So we went up to the College's entrance and opened the gates to step inside, closing the egress behind us. He motioned me to wait just beside the entrance and pointed to a conveniently placed chair of rather comfortable like while he delivered the artifact to its intended recipient.

I complied, taking a seat and hung about for Marcus to return. In my waiting, I closely surveyed the scene in the enchanting halls I found myself in. The blueish illuminated stone making up the walls and floor in conjunction with the prodigiously high ceiling gave off a venerable an opulent impression, overshadowing my own, small presence in the great space of the inner architecture.

Leaning forward spying to the left, I observed an opened gate with the mage's guild emblem sitting on it, behind which I threw a gentle look into the big entrance hall in which I witnessed a magic lecture take place. An older wizard, clad in a red robe, instructed his students to hurl fire balls, ice needles and lighting strikes at him while he deflected them all quite easily using a very simple, albeit highly effective, shielding spell. The teacher went on to explain how to cast this spell, going into much detail about all the kinds of destruction magic this hex could protect one from.

He added, however: "This spell won't protect you from black mages, necromancers or vampires either soul trapping you or tugging at your life force. It will also fail to guard you from physical harm dealt by means of more conventional weaponry. That said, the dreaded and forbidden Soul Siphon spell will, despite its destruction-esque nature, still pass through this barrier; so be on your guard!"

And just like that, I learned how to cast a shield spell only by paying attention and meticulously observing the scene and, at that, ended up knowing a good deal about other, more destructive casts as well as the limits of my protection spell that I freshly acquired. As will be apparent later, this spell shall save my life. The lesson ended and Marcus came back, entreating me to stand up and follow him. He offered me to have a tour and show me around the place, introducing me to a couple mages and guiding me through the College. I agreed and so we went.

First, we walked over to the Hall of Attainment, the living quarters for the apprentices and novices of the College, where we met a young mage by the name of Deimos, a destructionist and small-time enchanter by trade, about my age. His aura was vibrant with destructive power. A polite, albeit shady person. Marcus explained that he is the first outsider to have ever been accepted into the College for the sheer might he was able to display. Moving on, we met a Dunmer youth by the name of Shelivah who was most proficient in the art of illusion and herbalism. She greeted me by offering me one of her healing potions as a welcoming gift. I took it gladly, showing my gratitude by bowing to her and remarking that, should she ever get hurt she must only scream and I'll be there to help.

Even back then I felt some affection towards her so I thought it only fair to offer my help in case a situation gets out of hand at some point. And so it did later down the line. Anyway, after we had met with Shelivah, I said her goodbye and waved and she smiled, forming the word "later" with her lips, before waving back at me. Marcus didn't take note of that, for he was preoccupied with tugging at my sleeve beckoning me to follow him, since we were going to venture out of our living quarters through the great hall and into the openly accessible Arcaneum, described by Marcus as the great library of the College.

Upon entrance, I was taken aback at the sheer number of books, scrolls and papers this hub of knowledge promised to contain. Everywhere I glanced, I saw towering wooden bookshelves in pristine condition, professionally maintained and kept from disrepair over the ages no doubt.

These gargantuan constructs covered the majority of the walls and went all the way up to the ceiling, those upper levels being only accessible by usage of a nearby ladder, conveniently placed next to a counter, in the middle at the far end of the intimidating room, behind which stood the venerable-looking accountant.

What struck me as particularly curious about him was the fact that said accountant appeared to be a young Orsimer. I never took Orcs to be of any greater pursuits than hunting and fighting, much less to pursue knowledge and witchcraft, these professions traditionally reserved for less savage folk. And my doubts and quizzical impressions seemed to become obvious in an involuntary raising of my eyebrows, to which the orc gave me a scoffing look and proclaimed rather aggressively that "Orcs could be scholars too!".

Marcus snickered at his agitated commentary and told me that Urag, as the orc's name appeared to be, took his duty rather seriously.

According to Marcus it was downright impossible to sneak in without Urag taking notice, much less steal one of the books, so he implored me to not even try it, as that orc is a nasty fellow when crossed. Before we went elsewhere, I cast one last, reverential look into the room, soaking in the aura of scholarship and wisdom, secretly craving to have a seat on the commodious looking armchair and candle-lit table in the middle of the Arcaneum and start reading.

Marcus and I returned to the Hall of Attainment in which the apprentice's living quarters lay, gestured me to my resting place and stash, explaining he had already spoken to the head of the College, the respectable and nigh omnipotent Archmage, about me and my admittance to the halls of this place.

Stashing away my apprentice's book of restoration, thereby retrieving my very own College robe from the chest at the foot end of my bed, I stashed away also my garb I've traveled with and proudly donned the enchanted, hooded novice's robe, noticing how the magical power coursed through my body.

Never letting go of my prized staff, however, for I valued it greatly and I wouldn't want to find it in unauthorized hands. As it so happened, and in hindsight no mere coincidence, Marcus' bed was right next to mine, so he went on to show me something of his own making.

He opened the trunk and from it, he produced a big book, bound in black leather with mostly empty pages.

As he handed it to me, I flipped through the pages, intrigued at what they might contain. As I surveyed each one I could discern lots of drawings among even more handwritten text detailing magical practices to maximize restorational spells and such. To my chagrin, I stopped reading short of discovering a page detailing a rather dark ritual that I should come to witness later. Had I read further, I most assuredly would've left the College premises but in that moment, I was convinced of Marcus' sincerity in the matter of benign witchcraft.

Likewise, I was convinced that my time at the College would be an awesome and grand one.

And truly, so it was.

I'll skip detailing every single day leading up to the eventual fateful events that transpired. Suffice it to say that during my stay, the weeks went by quickly as I discovered more and more techniques in the art of restoration, occasionally dipping my feet into other schools as well. Destruction for using and learning more offensive spells to protect myself against attackers, for example. I also spent a lot of time with Shelivah, who not only told me of the basics of illusion magic and practiced them with me. To this end, we started to become close friends, our connection growing ever more intimate as time went on. I guess you could say I've even fallen in love at some point. Together with Shelivah, as it benefitted us both, we also dabbled in the arts of conjuration whereby we discovered how to summon armor and weapons to our aid should we ever meet a foe that proves impenetrable to our less proficient ways of magical assault.

I've also taken to frequent the Arcaneum in quest of greater knowledge and soon, made it my favourite pastime among spending time with Shelivah, in between lessons and lectures. I even became friends with Urag at some point, expertly and avidly discussing scholarly matters of great intricacy such as ancient tales of the Dwemer, Tamrielic history and hypotheses on the nature of magic. I remember a particularly heated discussion I had with the orc on the topic of whether or not necromancy should, albeit outlawed, become recognized as its own school of magic. Urag disagreed with great force, arguing how this would net the black and hideous art of raising the dead more attention and create the illusion that necromancy was actually a viable path to be taken which, according to Urag's belief, would be most terrible and outrageous.

Whereas I agreed to disagree with him, stating that, while it's true that necromancers would most certainly believe their dark art to not be as frowned upon, it'd open up hitherto unprecedented possibilities in the field of researching the art and it may even open up unheard of opportunities to turn this from a black art into a force for good if one would just take it upon themselves to research it properly. I can't remember how our discussion ended.

We tied, I believe, settling on that both our points of view were valid in their own right, even though Urag just didn't like the idea of people raising corpses for research and science.

Conversing with Urag was always pleasant and should you ever visit the Arcaneum, be sure to take a couple minutes and speak to him some time. He may seem grumpy on the outside at first, but trust me when I tell you he is a kindhearted fellow.

In retrospect though, I wish I never had this discussion about necromancy with Urag. Pleasant though it was, I didn't know that a certain mage eavesdropped on the two of us, henceforth taking actions that should've raised a lot of red flags but didn't, probably due to my naïveté at the time and my wrongly guided belief the black arts could be developed into something that is more than unsaintly practices and indignant rituals. But in due time. What I found to be particularly remarkable was that Marcus seemed to vanish quite often at queer times during my stay at the College, in the majority of cases apparently nowhere to be found. And every time he returned, he had this foetor surrounding him, a malodorous aura of decay and humidity. I wondered, then, whence he went all this time. But Marcus made sure I in due time bore witness to it.


	3. Chapter 3

VII

The weeks at the College passed by, and I was soon promoted to adept title, as were Marcus and Shelivah, being forced to migrate our belongings from the Hall of Attainment to the Hall of Countenance, wherein more advanced mages dwelt. As time went on, I could often take short glimpses at Marcus' book while he was adding more and more pages in frantic scribbling to it every day. This book however, would one day become known by a different name, being most prominent among practitioners of black magic and Daedric incantations. For now however, I could only hazard a vague guess as to its true contents but wouldn't mind it, as I regarded it to be Marcus' private research and thought to myself that, if he wanted to share his findings with me, he'd surely do so. And in time, he did.

On the fateful day of Morndas, 22nd of Hearthfire, 4E138, after having spent about a year at the College and being one week past my 20th birthday to which Shelivah congratulated me, celebrating the festivity by spending some private magic practicing sessions with me on the evening of said birthday.

Marcus approached me later that evening and inquired in a hushed voice, for no one else ought to hear such blasphemy, if I truly was of the opinion that necromancy, outlawed and forbidden it may be, could be researched and used as a force for good regardless, pertaining to not only reanimating dead bodies but bringing back true live beings. He had overheard my conversation with Urag a few months prior and, if I could with certainty tell him that I would indulge in such pursuits, that he required my help in that regard.

This day marks the point in time at which I made a grave mistake, unbeknownst to me at the time. In retrospect, I've taken to calling it "The Beginning of the End", as both our time at the College henceforth would prove to be comparatively short-lived. And in making my non renounceable error, I agreed to his solicitation after which he told me he needed me to see something awesome and queer, first.

At once, Marcus gestured me to follow him, silently as to not arouse any unwanted attention, out of the College building on a forebodingly moonless night and onto the courtyard. Out in the open, gust-stricken area, looking at Shalidor's stony likeness, we took a sharp right and Marcus, shoving away a surprisingly brittle layer of snow and ice, revealed a hidden trap door right next to the institution's main structure itself.

He closely and carefully surveyed our immediate surroundings with utmost precision for potentially prying eyes and, upon pronouncing the area vacant, flung open the hatch with a little force, exposing a descending ladder that led to the caverns below. Marcus went in first, after which he motioned me to trail his steps, remarking I close the hatch upon entering and lock it with a locking spell.

I did as I have been told, descending the ladder into dubious darkness and the mysterious depths below, unknowing whence it would guide me. As it turned out, it was a longer than expected trip to the abyss below, the small quarry housing the iron ladder, mounted to the cold, moist stone walls, growing ever more gelid and frigid the further we went. So much so that my stout Nord hands, at the lack of proper hypothermia protection, started burning in greyish color, seemingly all blood vanishing from my gripping fingers, desperate to hold on to the ice-infused metal.

Climbing downward, Marcus being ahead several meters, I came to note an increasingly putrid odor, a thin mist of foul and foetid quality appearing near the base of the iron construct.

Just what kind of place have we marched into? When I finally reached the ladder's base, my feet connecting with the filthy stone floor, and thank the Divines I wore sturdier than normal boots complimenting my magical garb that felt stained by my mere presence in such a forebodingly abhorrent place, I was met with an increasingly mouldy smell coming from either the all-engulfing mist, being given off by the walls, or both.

As I took the time studying my freshly discovered surroundings, I noticed an aura of a particular and horrible rottenness to the cracked floor and mossy, anthracite walls on which I observed quaint streams of semi-opaque liquid running through the fractals and indentations of the dark brickwork which I fancied to be a queer type of either dungeon, crypt or forgotten prison.

Furthermore, the nauseating, greenish mist undulating about, hinting at something quite sinister from a dark, long forgotten past, within these remarkably antediluvian halls with its cyclopean architecture, appeared to burn my eyes slightly and beyond question stained my enchanted robe with malodorous portent, adding to my already injured hands, which I quickly appeased by my healing light I let protrude from the pores of my skin.

Notwithstanding the repeated assault on my nostrils by olfactory putrefaction and the decaying, malefic feel of it all, I consented to further delve into the pestilential and utterly repulsive vaults and corridors, that by their very existence should have deterred me with great force, of what Marcus referred to as "The Midden".

The Midden, Marcus explained to me as we wandered further into the dank, damp hallways and maze-like tunnels of this place, no doubt long fallen to oblivion of the dwellers above it, allegedly used to be some form of dungeon in which enemies to the College in its earlier days were imprisoned, tortured, executed or left to rot, as seemed to be evident by the rusted, partly locked, partly crumbled cell doors leading to small, confined spaces with grim contents.

Marcus went on, detailing to me the College Magistrate's deliberate actions in respect to hiding the entrance to the Midden and, by extension, the Midden Dark, an area under these decomposition-infested walls, running even deeper in cavernous darkness and abyssal depths. At that moment I, for the first time, started to firmly question the actual righteousness of our oncoming joint venture. Nevertheless I continued to follow Marcus through the tightly packed, humid air filling my lungs with rot on every breath, ignoring that this place, by history and moist, repellent odor alone, dissuaded me greatly as to cause several fits of suppressed gagging along the way. Surely, a soul of more somber countenance than I would have sought the ad-hoc discontinuation of the proposed cooperation.

At last, we arrived in the central chamber of these utterly despicable vaults. Behind an old, rustic wooden door with oxidised steel supports and iron barred window lay a room casting a strange and alien radiance through the slits and cracks in the slippery, brown wooden entryway, hailing from an abundance of lit, white candles on the other side. Marcus shoved the heavy portal open, revealing the contents of the room before us and spilling a grand stream of warm light out of the brick seamed ingress and into the umbral voids behind, casting weirdly dancing shadows onto the ancient walls and floor leading to the corridor whence we came.

He has, in an effort to study the dark arts undisturbed and in surgical meticulosity, transformed this presumably once empty chamber into an incantation room, a laboratory and a small library. I gasped in awe as to what Marcus had fastidiously constructed here and suddenly, it dawned on me where he had gone all this time. Over the course of a few months he must have been setting up this place in secret! In its center he built the heart piece of his operations - an altar of charred rock, ornately chiselled hieroglyphics on its sides and rims I could not decipher, much less having seen them in any of the books from the Arcaneum, with a purple carpet carefully laid out on the top and, as such, "working space" of the altar. On its four corners, slightly protruding outward to give an impression of a rectangular fortress with four outwardly placed watchtowers at the keep's outer precipice, stood four candlesticks of silver, one for each of the four corners, with white, burning candles embedded within. Those candles, and the abundance circumjacent to the rocky construct, served to soothe my assailed nostrils by killing most of the unpleasant stench I hitherto experienced.

Behind the actual altar stood a lectern holding Marcus' book, ready to be cast open and read. Shifting my gaze to the left there were several old, battered and partly rotting bookshelves he indubitably found around the Midden somewhere, taking their rustic, foul brokenness into account.

Therein were contained numerous volumes of varying topics such as all the different schools of magic and hypotheses on the nature of magic itself, books on enchanting, knowledge about souls and soul gems, scriptures pertaining to herbalism and alchemy as well as some volumes of more historic value, respecting the rise and fall of the legendarily fabled necromancer and Wormking Mannimarco as well as books about Aedra, Daedra and the planes of Oblivion, among other more miscellaneous items such as The Lusty Argonian Maid, Ahzirr Trajijazeri and Capn's Guide to the Fishy Stick.

Filling out this literature inclined space was a small writing desk Marcus said to contain ritualistic scrolls and magical spell books in its storage compartments.

Glancing to the right, the laboratory he, without a doubt great difficulty, assembled was situated. Sporting an enchanting table with runes unheard of, casting a sickly blueish light onto its stony surface. Alchemical appliances such as a mortar, a retort and vials of various lengths and sizes being assembled around a scientific working table glowing with green, fluorescent and hideously bubbling liquids, there also were shelves mounted on top of said table filled to the brim with various alchemical ingredients and components ranging from simple to gather herbs and common plants to more uncommon roots all the way up to devilishly dangerous and difficult to acquire salts or body parts from various creatures found all throughout Tamriel.

I could make out bone meal, astral essences, ectoplasm, mountain flowers, elve's ear, barnacles, atronach salts, fish scales among other, more bestial things I care not to mention. And it was within these depraved, forgotten and utterly debauched halls that we would soon conduct our experiments in secret, knowing that the Midden, and by extension the Midden Dark, was the only place not too far away from the College we could, and would, hone our knowledge of the dark arts in without being ridiculed, arrested or executed.

Not making any further inquiries as to where he procured all this equipment from, Marcus and I discussed our actions from this point forward, appertaining to the oncoming experiments at hand. In due time, we settled on surveying the area for leftover corpses. We had to start somewhere, after all.

VIII

After a prodigious amount of planning our actions we, on the following day, started to act. Although I was determined to research the dark arts in secret for the greater good, I didn't sleep well the night I discovered the hideous working space I would henceforth submit myself to. Although the great number of candles at least helped with the smell in burning the olid mists wherever the light shone and disperse the puant savour by seemingly sucking it out of the air. I didn't quite know what was setting me off then, albeit I harbored a sneaking suspicion that the amount of dedication and secrecy to this project was ultimately ill-fated.

Notwithstanding my worries I initially entertained, that next day would be the day I actually started working on cadavers. Marcus and I met in the Midden by sunrise, taking the utmost precautions not to be either caught or missed, closely surveying the College schedules in an effort to always be present when required and always be absent when possible. I went as far as to tell Shelivah that there's a high chance I may be a little preoccupied in the days to come but appeased her growing concerns by taking her into my arms. I told her that there was nothing to worry about and that I would only research the nature of restorational power on behalf of all non-healers, her included.

Before I went to see Marcus that morning, she gave me a tender kiss on my lips that day, imploring me to be careful, wherever I would stride and wherever my path would take me, for she noticed the odd smell the day before and suspected an unsavoury place to be its origin. I told her that I'm fine and that I'll be back soon enough, hugging her a last time before I went to see Marcus. On arrival in our horrible laboratory of death and ruin, me and Marcus set out to search the upper part of the Midden for corpses, or remnants thereof, first, for we needed some kind of specimen to work on in the first place.

We collected dust, gathered rotten flesh pieces and meticulously carried entire skeletons, carefully rearranging their bones as to not confuse one skeleton with the other. Doing this fetching and gathering work for hours, we only stopped when it was time to either lecture a couple of fresh apprentices and novices, or be lectured by the masters of the College. How we went undetected for so long still eludes my fancy to this day, since we always reeked of foulness and decay, even earning strange remarks about our hygiene at times.

However the only one to show true worry remains Shelivah, who sometimes tried to keep me situated in the College proper when I intended to hurriedly leave the lectures in an effort to keep on working on mine and Marcus' research. In time, I've spent less and less time with her, my ominous studies becoming all-consuming. At a certain point in time, not sure when, I even stopped noticing her ever more feeble attempts at conversation or intimateness, she gradually leaving me be in hopes of my work finishing some day.

However, once Marcus and I gathered all that we could uncover in those tenebrous halls of the upper Midden, we witnessed a singular collection of a very special kind. A total of sixteen and a half skeletons, a festering flesh pile of about half my own height and two small bowls of bone meal, among a few other things such as leftover, rusted weaponry and a few dried herbs. We put all these ingredients into the neighbouring cells for later retrieval and started to read books on the basics of necromancy and the dark arts in general.

Marcus, having already acquired a good deal of knowledge, even of a kind not described in commonly acquirable books, introduced me to the process of raising the dead, hinting at his black book he wrote, containing most of the knowledge we were going to need. That day, we let the bones of the deceased rest and only dwelt on the topic of necromancy hypothetically and theoretically so that I might be prepared for actually reanimating the dusty bones of the dead in that murky and reclusive place we called the our second home.

The following day, always keeping a keen eye to the relevant appointments we had to be present at to avoid suspicion, we actually committed the forbidden, black act known as necromancy.

It pains me greatly to speak of this, to even remember this, for I've at that time set aside all respect for the dead I previously had always employed and threw away all moral and empathy I could once muster, for the act of reanimating those that passed kills off a part of your soul that is hard to retrieve later on, in weaker individuals permanently disrupting or outright destroying one's conscience. I wish I had acted differently, for it was quite the arduous process to reclaim that part of me which died that day. As for Marcus, I suspect he never was able to make that step.

Thenceforth, we initiated our experiments by raising the inanimate remains of those who expired within the confines of this enigmatic crypt. The first time of doing it felt as wrong as something could possibly feel. The blood froze in my veins and my cardiac activity slowed down to a snail's pace. I felt a growing indifference tightening its grasp around my heart as time went on and in the end, I thought it not problematical to work with such vile specimens.

Don't misapprehend; I was a fool to have not properly scrutinized our unhallowed practices! There is a reason for outlawing the art.

When my first otherworldly creation, a brittle, unstable, headless skeleton materialized itself before me, I felt a surge of ice flowing like a tidal wave through my body, as if my bloodstream congealed, crystallizing, ready to burst any minute.

I could smell the conspicuous decomposition radiating off of it but it ceased bothering me all of a sudden. I watched as my skin went pallid the more I continued my ill opus. My outside started to look ever more sicklish, the cold embrace of the void rushing through me as if some unknown force from beyond sapped all life from my body while time seemed to be nonexistent, leaving only an animate husk, a shell of a man once inclined to be a renowned healer, proprietor of a benign chapel some time in the future perhaps. In an instant, all this vanished, leaving only my broken conscience and my magical powers among dark under-eye circles, a testimony of my depleted buoyancy.

Being relieved of commonly established sensitivity, I suddenly ignored all the red flags that popped up along the way, being entirely unbothered as to what we've taken to do on a regular basis. For the first three days down there in the dark, we practiced raising corpses in preparation for our next big project we called "Rematerialization".

Make no mistake though, for we may have practiced, but it didn't come without the price of a few summons backfiring. I remember one particular instance in which Marcus didn't attune the spell correctly and ended up reanimating the skeleton of a powerful mage who hurled a thunderstorm of destruction magic at us, only my magical barrier that I've learned about the day I've been admitted to the College separating me from instant death. In the end, we were able to put it down for good by immolating it together with a lot of fire casts until it fell to ashes. These ashes we then quickly dispersed, never to make that mistake again.

Pertaining to the aforementioned Rematerialization, Marcus hypothesized that, if we both focused necromancy on a bareboned skeleton we prepared to lie in a pile of flesh, and restoration magic at the same time, by usage of carefully selected spells and formulae of his own making, it should be possible to reconstruct an at least partly humanoid looking being. I didn't argue with that, in fact agreed with Marcus, remarking that he surely had a point.

And so we went to prepare the ghastly and abhorrently forbidden ritual which would later be known as "The Ritual of Fleshbinding".

We started to arrange the bloody rite by covering the entire surface of the altar in the central chamber with the maggoty flesh from the pile that we gathered a couple of days ago. We needed to be swift however, for our meaty supply was naturally dwindling due to the putrescent insects that had taken up residence within. Not to mention the indigenous rats that, in part due to intoxication from mouldy entrails, sported interesting deformities.

We proceeded to align all the skeleton's bones in their exact, anatomically correct position, filling it and all gaps in between with the aforementioned flesh, after which we completely coated the osseous silhouette in fastidious fashion so as to not leave any interstices to ensure success so that the procession worked as we intended.

Marcus then instructed me to cast my long range mending spell on the ghoulish mountain of gore in an effort to constitute an aura of restoration for the soon-to-be animated thing. I did as had been requested of me but for now, nothing happened.

I continuously held the spell until Marcus animated the lifeless ossature. And as we experimented and invoked whatever it is the creature would present itself to be, we could see that the experiment actually seemed to work somewhat.

I have seen things down there. Things that ought to be erased from existence and all records telling of their former presence cast down into the abysmal pits of Oblivion itself.

Things I was responsible for. And the ensuing abomination was one such thing.

When the pile of corrupted and pestilential meat and bones was struck by both my mending spell and Marcus' raising spell, tinting the whole room in a flurry of pale blue and warm yellow light scintillating off the moist, surrounding walls. The creature began to levitate, floating in mid-air, when the crude lumps of flesh coarsely stuck to the bones and reconstructed themselves in unnatural and undulating fashion, with audible smacks and drips, blood clots forming and spilling, the sanguine liquid running down its freshly created vessel, forming a large, viscous pool beneath the horribly deformed figure.

It appeared as if it worked, when we noticed that we haven't thought of concerning ourselves with the topic of where the flesh used originated from, thusly not included in the formula, so that instead of the expected humanoid result, something else entirely claimed itself unduly to be alive in the mortal plane of existence.

During the mending process, the abomination was covered with skinless, hairless, malformed, dripping flesh exposing several viscose and unbelievably nasty, opaque fluids. Out of the various clumps different, crudely healed, crooked limbs started to appear, moving and kicking and groping the air and sick mist around it. On its surfaces, many mouths and orifices developed and albeit mute from a lack of vocal cords they appeared to try and scream at their horrible fate, hellbent on biting and munching anything readily available notwithstanding the lack of a stomach to digest the food they so desperately appeared to crave.

Hither and thither a tail, some teeth, weird scales and queer spare bone plates developed in the flesh and partly rose up rending the bloodsoaked meat of the thing we just created.

When the deed had been completed, there was presented to us a detestable abomination, an otherworldly creature made from the very fabric of terror itself. So shocking a revelation it was, I felt unsound in an instant, throwing up the breakfast I had previously eaten onto the floor beneath my feet in disgustingly splashing billows, an audible retching reverberating off the stony surfaces. For the bells of conscience still rang from time to time and I wasn't prepared for a horror this real, yet this abnormal and anomalous in nature.

It is impossible to be ready for such unheard of beings from the deepest fathoms of gruesome creation. When I recovered from the initial shock and rose back to my feet after having been subject to kneeling at the power of my sickness, Marcus and I both concluded, albeit the experiment having proven itself to be successful, that this monstrous, shuffling nightmare doesn't belong in the realm of Mundus.

It had no eyes with which to see and no nose with which to smell but still, it knew where we were in relation to it. Its face wasn't so much a face as it was an amalgamation of corrugating, pulsating, bending, seeping flesh, featuring two partly rotten Argonian tails and five mouths on its featureless visage. The tails writhing and all the mouths over the entirety of its unholy body opening and closing at various intervals. That's when it started to quickly shamble towards us in a feral demeanour. In preparation of the oncoming fight against this hideous, nature-defying terror, I grabbed both my staff and dagger, hands shaking with palms drenched in sick, cold sweat at the very premise this creature presented.

Before I could even muster the courage to engage this being from beyond the veil, it charged at me, it's countless limbs groping with ferocious fury and insatiable hunger. Paralyzed in surprise, it grabbed me with its wet, blood soaked claws, lifting me off the ground, pulling me closer intent on feasting on my flesh. Mind shattering horror dazed me and my consciousness slipped for a moment before I found myself on the ground, lying in a pool of various liquids of unmentionable quality that no doubt the creature left behind, as well as my own vomit.

Dazed and reeling, I watched as Marcus valiantly fought the thing, observing him casting at last the forbidden Soul Siphon spell to forever eradicate this mistake from existence. The assault stunned the creature briefly, after which it was destroyed by Marcus' secret black magic. I witnessed it fall apart, the loose bonds amidst the clumps of flesh disassembling, one by one falling to the floor with a nasty and repulsive splashing, its bones audibly bending and breaking, echoing through the vaults, until only a lump of decaying, wet, foul matter was left. It yielded no soul after death which didn't surprise us but if it had, there would've been no limit to the terrible implications it would have caused.

After the battle, Marcus helped me onto my feet and we decided in unison to take a break from the dark arts for the day. Back in the living quarters, I cleansed myself from all the soot, blood and other liquids, discarding my robe for it was stained beyond cleansing, never noticing how Shelivah gazed at me worriedly from across the room, averting her eyes in despair and sadness.

I made up an elaborate excuse as to the disappearance of my garment, explaining to the Magistrate at the College that I've been on an outward venture pertaining to the acquisition of an item of great importance. Failing to retrieve aforementioned artifact, I went on, I instead found myself battling a crazed necromancer near Korvanjund, his subordinates and summoned undead circling me, rending my robe in the process, hence my plea for a new one. The Magistrate bought my blatant lie, but not without queer looks directed at me, and agreed to provide a fresh, enchanted adept's robe to me.

An event such as this wherein I bluntly had to construct a lie to keep me from being discovered, I resolved, must not happen again, lest I be expelled or worse. On that still frightful and perturbing evening, the sun setting forebodingly behind the towering, snowy mountain tops in the distance, Marcus and I stood in the courtyard, catching some fresh air and discussed the recent events and by what kind of strategy we were going to proceed.

Marcus argued that the experiment only took such a grim and jeopardizing turn because we didn't use the "correct" flesh in the ritual and proposed gathering and aligning other flesh to try it again. I objected, stating that, even if we were to do that, we could just as well take the corpse of someone who had just recently passed. This remark of mine, however, should determine the course of our actions henceforth, since it convinced Marcus that indeed, all we managed to accomplish with our previous experiment was to create a horror that defied and defiled the premise of the Mundus itself and that, if we were to try his heretofore proposed, altered method, we'd probably achieve a result very close to actually raising a zombie, as it were.

Marcus wrote down the results of this experiment in his shadowy book of horrors regardless, notwithstanding the outcome we previously witnessed. On that evening, we parted ways at midnight, me going to sleep in an effort to recover from what has so recently taken place and Marcus heading out into the winds on a mission with a grievous purpose as I should observe on the following day. Drifting gently off to sleep on a moonless night above Winterhold, increasingly intense doubts crawled up my spine, poisoning my thoughts and dreams for the night.

What if all this wasn't right? What if, in truth, we could never discover anything non-evil about necromancy, it turning out to be an entirely unsanctified art beyond saving and turning around? What if all arduousness I subjected myself to was for nought, only serving to turn me into a mad worshipper of undeath? Such were the thoughts racing through my brain as I craved for sound sleep, feeling protected under the heavy and warm silken blanket of the bed I lay in, dreaming strange dreams, in one of which I thought I heard Shelivah call out to me.

Hitherto I've told lies, raised the dead, created an otherworldly horror, studied the black arts and neglected the one closest to me. But soon, I would take actions against the last vestiges of human compassion.


	4. Chapter 4

IX

From my strange and disquieting dreams, I suddenly woke to a knock at the door of the Hall of Countenance, surprisingly early in the morning. It was about two hours short of sunrise and dizzy from sleep deprivation, being so aggressively robbed of my well-earned rest, I hazily collected my thoughts and pressed against the bed railing, still weakened from yesterday's events, pushing myself upward, feebly standing on my two feet. I looked around me and found the living quarters curiously vacant while rubbing my eyes to finally get a grip on the situation. Apparently I took so long as to warrant more impatient rapping from the nightly visitor.

I hastened to put on my fresh robe and stumbled thither whence the nervous banging originated. I grabbed the doorknob, turning it slowly with an audible metallic creaking, unable to contain a shocked gasp. Before me stood Marcus, no doubt being still awake since the morning prior, all drenched in sweat and stained with mud, dirt and some blood. I gave him an inquisitive gaze as I surveyed his ghastly, battered and madly exhausted appearance to which he replied that there was no time to explain, at least not in the College halls.

From what I could observe, it was only logical for me to infer he had been digging out graves this night but, as soon laid out to me, it was much more iniquitous.

Strengthening my doubts in respect to the virtuousness of his deeds hitherto unspoken, he beckoned me to meet him in the Midden, right now, for a matter of utmost importance that could not wait.

I hesitatingly agreed, already filled with a quaint sense of dread pertaining to what it is I might witness, telling him to give me a moment to get my bearings before I would go. He nodded, striding forth into that ever darker abyss he called his laboratory, me following him shortly afterwards. At this point, I often have descended that frightful ladder into the dank depths we called our new home for delvings into the dark arts, but this time was different.

Whereas I had grown wont to the strange, dead silence and the pestilential smell of the place, coming closer to the base I now heard voices from below unheard of from previous delvings.

Stopping for a brief period of time, I strained my ears and fancied to make out three distinct voices.

One female in a fit of crying in utter sadness and despondence, begging to spare her life, hitting something partly solid but soft in nature, repeatedly, seemingly in despair beyond hope. Another, male, arguing and frantically shouting curses and swears, agitated to a rather heated state demanding to be set free lest he would resort to violence of grave proportions. The third voice I could barely make out amidst the commotion going on down there, silently chanting something in a language I didn't recognize, who I later identified to be Marcus.

I thought to myself, albeit only briefly: "What have you done, Marcus?"

Climbing down further, a strong sense of nausea and a heretofore unprecedented queasiness struck me as my nostrils were ambushed by a hideous odor of burnt flesh and freshly spilled blood with hints of partly digested food among the overall fetidness of the location, in part owing to the incredible humidity of the air coming from the wet stone and moist floor.

What, by the Nine Divines, has he done? Slightly panicked, I fled down the ladder, hastened to quickly make my way to the central chamber wherein Marcus set up his sophisticated laboratory previously, in my haste almost slipping on the wet stone floor, instead sliding along the final corridor, crashing into the door to his inner sanctum.

The portal flung open with great force originating from my built-up kinetic energy causing me to trip on a loose brick in the ground and fall flat on my face. Evidently, I had been too tired for proper muscular coordination but was now wide awake. My mode of ingress a token of the general fatigue that had been seeping into my body upon being forcibly bereaved of any convalescence.

I was fast to get up, greeted by an inhumanely horrendous scenery defying all that I've ever learned about condolence. Before my eyes unfolded a scene of rather tragic extent, two people being imprisoned in small cells fashioned from old iron bars and rusty cell doors Marcus no doubt retrieved from within here somewhere, placing them adjacent to the entrance door which was perfectly aligned with his makeshift altar. The cell to the left contained the angry man who I didn't bother listening to as he yelled curses at me in rapid succession, only his red robe being somewhat recognizable until I realized that this man was one of the scholars of the College. To our chagrin a proficient destructionist at that. Next to him lay a partly rotten body of a person Marcus must've been digging out from somewhere that night, I was certain.

Shifting my gaze to the rightmost containment, I bore witness to a crying woman and a burnt male corpse, her clenched fist repeatedly coming down onto the chest of the deceased in mourning of her loss, I presumed. That was, until I realized that, to my terror, the orange robe of the dark skinned woman seemed oddly familiar and upon lifting her face, eyes swollen with tears, her red nose dripping, I looked into the lost eyes of Shelivah. My heart stopped for a moment at this jaw dropping revelation.

My lover I've forgotten - incarcerated. Stricken with grief, she was mute, unable to utter even a single word. Only her shining orbs visibly begging me for help. I averted my eyes in fear and morbid ambiguity, turning to face Marcus, glaring at him in disbelief.

I relayed to him that at no point we agreed to such detestable actions. He explained to me, then, what he did and what his intentions were, his gaze mad with tiredness and frenzied overworking. I wondered if it was just the lack of a good night's rest or if there was something else entirely at work here that caused his appearance to be so ragged and beaten. And indeed, he looked absolutely terrible. His garments stained with three kinds of nightmarish soot, partly ripped to tatters, partly wet and soaked in whatever unsavoury fluids he brought with him from his nightly trip. His skin a sicklish grey, cold with winter's frozen embrace and utter lifelessness, his beard coarse and dirty. In his eyes, nothing reflected back at me, as if he was a reanimated puppet himself. As he explained further, I reasoned his condition to be hailing from his lack of crucial recuperation and shrugged it off as best I could, though his voice trembled with madness and exhaustion as he related to me the rest of his story.

Apparently, he planned to spend the night digging up cadavers from some cemetery but after the first corpse he brought thither, quickly realized that he'd never be done by dawn if he wanted to acquire four fresh specimens, taking into account the prodigious amount of digging it would take to find carcasses in good enough condition. So he did what any good necromancer would do and settled on the next best thing: abducting people. Now, that he'd go as far as to carry off mages from the College, I did not foresee and I pressed my hand firmly against my forehead in dubitation and feverish imagination as to the repercussions of such an act.

He further explained, he snuck into the College, paralyzed his victims with a stunning spell he caught wind of during his intense studies, and brought the limp bodies here. Marcus originally intended to perform a first test of his ritual on a novice mage he kidnapped and imprisoned before and let him out of the cage at which point the novice ferociously attacked, trying with all his might to avert impending doom, hence Marcus dispatched him in brutal fashion by burning him to a charred piece of lifeless flesh, throwing the corpse back into the prison.

So, he calmly stated, he had to devise a change of plans. I could scarcely believe what I've just been told but relaxed myself by breathing in deeply a few times, thereby inhaling the scorched stench of the roasted, still crackling flesh nearby, in an effort to remain in working order albeit gagging slightly at the sight of the still glimmering meat that used to be man or mer.

After the initial shock wore off, Marcus continued to detail the plans that he had for the night. We were to experiment on these subjects of course. First, we had to reanimate the body Marcus burnt beforehand, using it as a puppet to aid in the second stage of our current, tenebrous project. Marcus would then proceed to produce a peculiar item from his pouch that hit me with baffling conversance when I gazed at it, swallowing in surprise. It appeared that the person who introduced himself as Marcus, whom I met such a long time ago at Nightgate Inn and came to know as a friendly fellow to be easily excited at the simple art of restoration, carrying a very special soul gem with curious properties to be delivered to the Magistrate, never brought hither the artifact to its intended recipient. Instead, he would hand them a regular black soul gem, keeping the queer one to himself.

It dawned on me that what we were doing here has been planned long ago, I only getting involved by coincidence when I encountered my now ever more dubious and shady companion all those many nights ago. He went into great detail about the gem, explaining that, according to his research, and rather horrid field testing, it could, for one, house not only both white AND black souls but was also capable of collecting and retaining a near infinite amount of such. I didn't inquire further about his alleged 'field testing' he mentioned in fear of what terrible deeds I might uncover but I was sure they were of quite unsavoury nature.

Marcus then told me that, according to his hypotheses, the gem should in theory be capable of transferring a person's soul from one body to another, possibly prolonging life indefinitely. If that was true, he added, it must be possible to transfer one's soul to any vessel. I flinched at the sickening implications of this remark, but I agreed to carry on regardless, still under the impression of pursuing science to, in the end, create practices to save lives.

Furthermore, I had become a man of empirical study and my thirst for knowledge had to be satiated, albeit I had some qualms about the whole ordeal.

Witnessing Shelivah in such pain and agony ignited yet again the flame of doubt that agitatedly flickered in my heart, threatening to consume the numbness I've developed. Her tears choked my desire to continue this madness. The revivification of what should not be permitted to live.

I turned, looking at Marcus with disdain. In a courageous moment of resolute anger I withdrew the dagger I always kept on my person from its scabbard, ready to slice this dæmon's throat. Because Marcus apparently lacked any sort of remorse, for I was certain he knew of my affection towards this particular Dunmer. Even if I had neglected her for my growing interest in the occult, I could not let him abuse her for our pursuits.

Blade in hand I stepped up to him, pressing its sharp edge against his larynx. And I spoke:

"Never have I agreed to such distasteful acts. Corpses, maybe. Not, though, the living. You shall release her at once, lest I will end you and report your ill cravings to the Magistrate. I will not allow you to harm Shelivah or the other captive."

Marcus, with his crazed, delirious countenance, heinously laughed it off and replied:

"Is that so? What, then, will happen, you suppose, should you decide to commit murder upon my person? Will they not punish you all the same? Worse still, those you intend to release from their incarceration. They are witnesses now. What fate will befall you in the event of their honest testimony? Both you and I, we know they are going to tell their tale. And when they iterate upon your involvement, will you not be exiled or executed?

"Think of this before you commit to your chosen path. You can still alter the destination it leads to. You have been such a loyal companion up to this moment. Do you truly wish to abandon this and your freedom, possibly your life, in exchange for their souls?"

He paused. I seized the opportunity of his momentary inadvertence and slid my weapon across his cheek, pushing him back. In an instant he furiously retaliated, sending a wave of staggering force my way. This assault lifted me up my feet and threw me against the door of one of the nearby cages. My back ached considerably and only with difficulty was it that I could regain a proper foothold.

With this smothering display of combat superiority he grinned at me in an astonishingly menacing way before he resumed his speech, his soliloquy infesting my better judgement.

"Did you truly believe me to just hand it to you like that? If you so choose, I will reduce your corporeal vessel to a pile of smouldering ashes. And should you decide to flee and tell of our joint venture, not only will you find utmost scorn in the individuals thusly notified. The two you seek to protect from harm will have expired by then."

Intimidated, I sheathed my dagger. I had no way of turning this situation in my favor. If I killed Marcus, provided I was strong enough, I'd have to explain myself which would lead to peril. If I went to consult the magistrate, Shelivah would soon be beyond saving.

"Only if you cooperate" Marcus announced, "can you keep her from death's icy grip. Only if you submit will you be able to save both yourself and her. Choose otherwise and all will be buried beneath the calamity you hail down upon us. Think, Rhodulf, of the consequences."

I had no choice. I realized that I had to consent to whatever it was he was going to do. Out of options, I threw Shelivah a look of utmost despair, telling of my plea for exculpation. My innermost apocalypse now reigned supreme. The dilemma conceived bringing tears to my eyes that gently streamed down my cheeks and into my beard. My stance shifted and I went into a disarmed stupor. In taciturnity did I walk over to Marcus, thereby showing him a corroborating nod.

Having understood my gesture, he smiled.

As if the contention that just unfolded did never take place, Marcus continued to further his account of the experiment's details that were at hand.

He needed two sets of test subjects. The first stage consisted of one living person and one corpse, while the second stage would use two living, soul-inhabited bodies and by glancing in direction of the rusted, makeshift cages, this has been prepared mere moments ago judging by the malodorous quality of it all. Marcus then instructed me to prepare myself for the oncoming ritual by grabbing my staff, keeping a soul trapping spell at the ready that he taught me way back when we started working together and stand aside, the rest, he went on, to become clear during the actual act.

I obliged in his request and braced myself for what was about to happen. I somehow knew that, whatever was to transpire, would surely be detestable. I was permitted no objection however.

Retelling the events that transpired thusly causes me great peril to this very day. These minutes of madness strike fear into my heart and soul and remembering even a second proves a test to my sanity. But I must tell of this terrible night in every minute detail for I seek absolution from the unspeakable things I am to be held responsible for.

At that fateful point in time, I was ambiguous no longer. Due to the most recent conflict, something stirred within me, reanimated my once dead conscience. Even more so if taken into account my complete and utter helplessness at the hands of Marcus. Once a friend, now an enemy. Even so, I had to comply.

In preparation of the act, I grabbed my iron staff, fastening my grip, thereby channeling the energy I held within, getting ready to cast the most potent soul trap I was capable of. Marcus, in the meantime, proceeded to raise the charred corpse in the cell containing also Shelivah, who fell into silence upon witnessing this, keeping control of the puppet as to not assault her. He then instructed me to cast the spell on her. With growing apprehension and jittery hands did I cast the spell. The regretful tinge of purple radiance filled out the entire room, the light being reflected off the moisture present on the surrounding anthracite walls, rushing into her quickly.

Her eyes widened in shock and fear, not knowing what would happen next. Marcus went on to hold up the peculiar black soul gem forebodingly, firing upon Shelivah the forbidden Soul Siphon, creating a beam of violet luminescence stretching across the room, making the air vibrate with dark energy, striking her heart. In an instant she died, not even able to produce a deathly scream, much less draw any last breath. I bore witness to the soul leaving her body in form of a blueish-purple swirl of dancing lights, being successfully trapped by that abominable gem. I secretly cursed my ever meeting this man while a lump formed in my throat, threatening to choke me. I grew faint for a moment, gasping for air through my clogged nose.

He then started an incantation of curious origin for he spoke in a language I knew not. But I will do my best to reproduce what he chanted from memory, as what I heard is still vividly present in my mind remembering the terrible deeds of that night:

"MAGICKA AV LORIAE

MAGICKA AV AT ADA YLORENE

AURANVOY AN ANGUA

AUTARACU AV CEYSELIE VEY

BIS ANYAMMIS DELLEVOY DARRE VEY GE NE NAGAIA NI RACUVAR NE ANYAMMIS NI EPE

O AT ADA YLORENE MAGICKA"

After these mind shattering words, something happened which pains me greatly to recall, as I witnessed the utmost horror I could hitherto fathom and still shakes me unto my innermost feelings deep down where my conscience lies. For I observed the just trapped soul being sent to the still standing, reanimated burnt body, striking it with awesome intensity.

Then came the screams.

Mad with terror and inconceivable agony, the now animate, charred person, still crackling slightly with burnt flesh, sprung to life, screaming for help, wailing in interminable suffering at the still smoking burns, exhaling dark grey fumes with every plea for mercy, in shock of Shelivah now being imprisoned in the immolated, hellishly disfigured novice's body.

I, too, was paralyzed in utter anguish this event precipitating my utmost sickness at all of it. I reeled, groping for a nearby stool to keep me on my feet whilst I steadied my fragile, shaky footing using my staff. No amount of comforting, warm restoration magic could account for the abysmal nausea I felt. And the wailing wouldn't stop. I closed my eyes, inhaling deep to yet again set my mind at ease as I heard the frantic shouting of the mad living corpse only a few meters away.

I threw a bewildered look at Marcus, who, notwithstanding the gruesomeness of this tragic scenery, clapped his hands in excitement for how well the experiment went down as the still screaming and crying Sheliva, _trapped in flesh_, gazed in defiance at her own dead body on the floor before emptying the remaining contents of the charred body's stomach onto it with vile retching and splashing, echoing throughout the halls.

That's it, I resolved, I had to put it out of its misery. I grabbed my dagger, yielding it with a clearness unprecedented and rushed forth, only to be thrown back by a magical barrier Marcus erected around the cells in case something went terribly wrong. My hands were still shaking, as they are now while writing this down, and I sat on the cold stone floor with its quaint wet drippings while a tear or two ran down my pale face. I felt cold, as if in an icy grave myself, entombed amidst howling souls begging for redemption, as I was sure I was well beyond redemption myself.

Regardless of my utterly broken state, Marcus, after a brief silence, proclaimed the experiment wasn't over yet and that there were still deeds to be done. He grabbed me by my robe's hood and slapped me across the face five or six times to bring me back from the brink of obliviousness, and it worked. I was now there again, albeit I still felt ill. And in my mind I realized this would be my undoing if I were to continue this grueling research. But I was even more afraid of Marcus, now appearing increasingly crazed with queer eyes and deep shadows running about his face, fearing for my own life should I ever disobey his orders again.

I steadied myself, sanity still holding fast but with clearer head now, having gazed past the obfuscating and obscuring veil of forbidden black magic. But in fear more than voluntarily, I obeyed Marcus to see this through to its bitter end, hoping for the possible discontinuation or finalization of our delvings. Alas, it was not so.

Marcus asked if I was okay and in good enough shape again to let stage two of the heretofore 'successful' ritual commence. I replied positively, receiving instructions shortly after. The mage clad in red, the teacher I once observed teaching protection spells in the grand entrance hall of the College, fell to silence upon discovering the magical barrier that has been set up. He, too, shall be transferred into the dead body next to him.

I will spare you the gruesome details of this event, suffice it to say that in the end, we had two living corpses, one burnt and one rotten, infused with the souls of the living, crying and screaming in upsetting fear and anxiety. And like that, stage two could commence.

For the next stage, I have been asked, in unison with Marcus, to cast a soul trapping spell on the gory and hellish captives, both of them having been fallen into silent whimpering and despair some moments ago, possibly realizing it was the end of the line for them, terrorized by thoughts of utter darkness and whispers of the emptiness from beyond.

After we soul trapped them, it was crucial that we offed them at the exact same moment for Marcus to trap the souls in mid-air and change hosts using an antediluvian invocation he discovered during his research, thereby the souls switching bodies according to his studies.

I got myself ready, doing as I was told so many times before, reluctantly casting the deathly spell onto the rotting body which developed a violet glow around it upon impact, while Marcus took care of the charred mess that used to be Shelivah, doing the same to her.

Then we commenced unified execution by means of a strong life draining spell in an effort to keep the bodies in as pristine a condition as possible. While I sapped the mage's life force, I inadvertently looked away, disgusted by my own actions.

We managed to pull it off, and before the now limp bodies fell to the floor, their souls gliding towards the brooding black gem, Marcus spoke these words in an unknown language I remember thusly:

"NE ANYAMMIS NI EPE O AT ADA YLOREN"

Upon the words being uttered, the souls turned back, switching positions in a magically scintillating flurry of pale blue-purple radiance, flowing into the once lifeless, now very lively bodies with an alien glow. The two of them, kneeling from pre-death, stood up and looked at each other in horror. They expertly contained their screams but were ultimately unable to conceal their utter despair at this dire situation, not even able to cry, trapped in these foul bodies, sobbing nonetheless.

Meanwhile I was subject to a weird ambiguity, juxtaposed between killing them to spare them this horrid existence and letting them live as Marcus didn't intend for their permanent demise but rather to free them to see how long they'd last. And to my dismay, I complied, the two victims of our unmentionable science now roaming the lands somewhere throughout Skyrim. And I was left with a crushing sense of guilt. For I knew that, if I had sacrificed myself, I could have stopped this.


	5. Chapter 5

X

Night has turned into dawn and dawn has turned into morning when I realized we completely disregarded the College schedule during our experiments! Immediately notifying Marcus of this, packing my belongings hurriedly, he nodded in response and quickly freed the two horrible captives from their respective containments, driving them out of the cells and onto the frightful ladder in the cold, damp, upwards stretching tunnel that connected this tenebrous place with the outside world. Both prisoners escaped into the golden sun rays rising up behind the towering peaks of the frozen stone mountains of this frigid land.

Meanwhile, Marcus had learned of another secret entrance to the Midden, located in the Hall of Countenance just beneath the staircase. In making a surprisingly quick escape, Marcus led the way so that we soon found ourselves indeed in those living quarters we knew so well and spent so much of our time in, memories of various proportions rushing back.

The way he told me about the College and the scholars, what it was like when he showed me around the place, how he frantically scribbled down notes in his dark, black book and how Shelivah and I caught some alone time more often than not, her tender fingers touching mine, the soft, dark skin gently stroking my cheeks, her lips connecting to my own. Immediately, I was filled with the utmost regret and crushing guilt, thinking of her terrible fate as a half-rotten corpse roaming the snowy, misty landscape.

With no way of turning back from the terrible things we've done, we focused on the task at hand which contained being in time for the morning lectures. We got ourselves ready and went to the great hall, stepping into the grand cyclopean space of the College, when we were greeted by a wave of chaos.

Mages and scholars were fleeing to either side, robed figures fumbling with books, maps and magical equipment, fervently discussing what happened. Apparently, kidnapping a seasoned destruction mage and teacher hasn't gone unnoticed since everyone on the premises was in prodigious unrest and, during the Magistrate's investigations, it turned out an adept illusionist had gone missing as well. An illusionist I, to my consternation, knew all too well. The prospect of not being able to tell of her fate only deepened my frustration.

The Archmage stood in the center of the great hall, silenced the commotion around him and proclaimed that no lessons would take place and that any mages, wizards or witches still in training, pertaining to those of adept rank or lower, weren't required to aid in the ensuing operations. All other mages, scholars and teachers, including himself, were to meet within the Archmage's quarters to form search parties and discuss strategies for clearing up of the recent events.

Me and Marcus were thusly not required to partake in the events the Magistrate would take care of and had, much to the relief for our tired bodies and mangled minds, the entire day off although the more experienced mages told us to stay on our guard since the kidnapper might still be around. Marcus couldn't contain a dreadful snicker going to our living quarters in a somewhat carefully delayed response to that remark, out of the scholar's hearing distance.

We went back to the Hall of Countenance where Marcus immediately grabbed his black book of unspoken terrors, resuming his frantic scribbling thereby documenting the knowledge gained during this night's lurid events, now contained within those dry pages. I, on the other hand, prepared myself to get a long, well-deserved couple hours of relaxing sleep. While dozing off I faintly noticed Marcus' distant whispers accompanied by his quill scratching on the surface of the tome's pages. But after a short while, I could stay awake no longer, my eyes, as if made from lead, involuntarily closing notwithstanding the precarious situation at the College, for they have been searching for us no doubt without knowing it. And even though I was appalled and disastrously shaken, my absolutely fatigued self was quickly drifting off into the soft realms of sound sleep. The last thing I fancied hearing Marcus saying in an ever more muffled voice before sleep's tender embrace was: "The poison, the right mixture...".

On the same day in the afternoon I awoke gently from a refreshingly dreamless sleep, turning my head around with curiosity whereby I listened closely for suspicious knocks or unhallowed steps but found not only the immediate area vacant. The only thing I heard were hastened footsteps in the distance, most likely from the aroused mages on their witch hunt for whomever kidnapped the two who were proclaimed missing. By surveying the room I noticed a severe lack of Marcus and his book. I breathed in deep in hopes of him leaving the College behind, never to return again, I, free at last to continue my life at the College in relative peace. The relief, however, proved to be short lived, much to my despair. I discovered a hastily written note on the bed next to me. It read:

"Am out getting crucial supplies for final experiment. Expect me in few days. - Marcus"

My dreams of freedom from the parasitic curse of necromancy had been shattered for the time being, but at least I could rest and collect myself for a few days. However the notion of him referring to what was to take place as the 'final experiment' greatly uplifted my spirits. The promise of ending this horrific correspondence was something I yearned for all too much. Had I known, though, what kind of experiment Marcus was planning on conducting, I'd've fled. Far, far away. Maybe taking the next ferry to Solstheim or perhaps travel southwest to the Sumerset Isles. Anywhere. Anywhere but in Skyrim. For I soon would bear witness to the creation and awakening of an odious adversary to the premise of life itself, mortal or divine.

The next few days without Marcus appeared to be blissfully uneventful and, upon inquiries pertaining to his whereabouts and if I knew anything about his sudden disappearance, he evidently being a prime suspect in the matter when he left, I shrugged off the questions directed at me, explaining to those inquisitive that I knew not whence he went. And in truth, I didn't know WHERE he has gone, only THAT he vanished, so technically, I wasn't lying, although I did everything in my power to conceal even the remotest hints at any deeper cooperation with him for fear I might get persecuted. So I never disclosed any information relating to Marcus to my fellow mages and scholars. As long as I could be in any way linked to him, I had to keep everything firmly under lock and key. What dire misjudgement this was! How naïve of me to think this could have had a less execrable end. In trying to shield myself from any harm that might befall me on accounts of my involvement with this loathsome fiend of a man, I completely, utterly disregarded the possibility for absolution then.

Perhaps, had I spoken, had I just lifted the curtains, I could have stopped this repugnant creature known as Marcus. Acquittal is often attained by those who confess. Even more so if their misdeeds were at least in part involuntary. I had been pressured into submission but this very fact I could have maybe turned in my favor. Alas, this cogitation crossed me not when I sought to disconnect myself from the dreaded necromancer.

While I grimly waited for Marcus' eventual return, I tried using restoration magic on myself to gradually calm my body and mind, healing my soul slowly but surely. These techniques are widely unknown as I would later find out. For healers, more often than not, appear to focus on bodily injury rather than a chafed spirit. But my inner workings had been so excoriated that I resorted to learning and developing this underappreciated sub-school of restoration.

Much to my surprise it worked well enough so that one day prior to his advent I resolved to kill Marcus in cold blood. My sense of justice and righteousness now properly restored as a result of his absence.

After all the things he's done, I just could not let him live. The two of us, palpably gone mad in our pursuits, committed unspeakable iniquities and Marcus' own madness never seemed to fade. Not a faint glimmer of hope, conscience or even empathic life could be seen in his eyes. Not a hint of humanity left to his contorted anima. So for all that was good in the world, I needed to destroy this source of dæmoniac evil in our midst. I simply had to.

XI

On a murky, clouded, sunless loredas on the 11th of Sun's Dusk, 4E138, as the year was drawing to a close, the birds retreating into their nests in the invisible morning sun, I awoke to a strange dream from that night. Within said dream, I found myself situated in what I assumed to be a dimly lit cavern, cold and wet, an icy cave of great depth and mysteriousness. I fancied screams emitting from a tenebrous tunnel that lay just ahead.

Observing myself advancing into the shadowy mound in the transcendent cliff walls around me, I caught myself running through it at great speed, leaving tracks on the hard, coarse snow, bits of ice and frozen soil sent flying in my wake. A strange light loomed forebodingly ahead of me, an alien force preventing passage to reach the accursed radiance a few steps short before I witnessed as my face distorted in sheer horror upon attempted ingress.

Before my ability to conjure up a terrified scream I awoke, drenched in cold sweat on hot skin, my heart pounding in a frenzy, as fast as a steed could run. There was a knock on the door.

My hands shaking in fear, feverish drippings running from my face in a stream of repellent liquid, I carefully lifted the soaked blanket, my feet floating about as I prepared to stand upright again.

The bodily response to such nightmarish vistas hampered my efforts to approach the door, limping from terror as I was, but eventually I managed. In grabbing the doorknob, I turned it gently, moistening its metal with my clutching fingers. It slid open and to my relief I spied a courier through the slit giving me reason to open the door further to reveal the man's full appearance. He glanced at me inquisitively, confused in respect to my sleep-deprived and battered appearance. Hesitatingly the now somewhat nervous looking man handed me a bloodied note, addressed to me, relief turning into horror as soon as I asked who the sender was, the reply paralyzing me for a moment.

Marcus.

I thanked the courier, awarding him a greater than is customary amount of septims for his troubles at which he marvelled, and waved him goodbye. After all, I resolved, this might just have been the last ever goodbye I should give to anyone.

Carefully unfolding the small piece of paper, it read thusly:

"Meet me in the Midden Dark for the final experiment. Follow me one last time, as you have done so many times before. A new era is about to begin. - Marcus"

Breathing heavily, I lost grip of the small note causing it to slowly float to the floor, landing with a very faint noise, barely audible but to me, the only noise that existed at the moment, as I felt how time around me froze in that instant. The blood quickened, in- and exhaling with great difficulty, as I prepared myself for the arduous journey ahead by grabbing some provisions from my personal stash as well as my prized staff and my steel dagger, arming myself for a fight I was unsure of winning nevertheless with unprecedented determination to stop whatever madness Marcus was intent on bringing about us all.

With all the courage I could muster and unheard of resolve, I donned my robe, yielding both my staff and dagger, venturing forth one last time into these abhorrent depths of madness. As my red, liquid life force fled from the arteries and veins and blood vessels it was contained in, I swiftly took to using the shortcut beneath the stairs in the Hall of Countenance, hastily opening up the hatch, descending the ladder leading to the Midden in rapid fashion, careful to not lose any time for I knew that each second wasted was one more second in which doubts could deter me from my quest. One more second this blight was allowed continued existence on a plane he shall not dwell anymore, for he despises it with unrelenting hatred I was certain.

I made my way through the Midden's cyclopean vaults and corridors, this time more carefully treading, even though in haste, as to not slip again, arriving at the central chamber, our hub we used to conduct our hideous experiments in. But everything was in striking disorder as soon as I observed the chaotic scenery laid out before me.

For one, the altar was completely missing from the room, only scratch marks on the floor telling of its existence, whereby its transportation seemed to knock over various candles strewn about, now leaking their hot wax into the tiniest fractals of the anthracite brickwork beneath my feet. Its absence caused a gaping hole in the center of operations Marcus heretofore so meticulously created. The alchemy lab was completely devoid of ingredients on the other hand, save for some few leftover dried herbs and trampled-on flowers, with broken apparatus on the ground beside it. Every remaining vial and retort shattered to sharp pieces of glass reflecting the leftover light from some of the still burning candles casting bent shadows on the moist walls through the humid air and the greenish mist that had returned in absence of most of the waxen light sources. This lab wasn't any longer in working order I concluded.

The enchanting table beside it was missing as well, nowhere to be found, all resources hitherto acquired seemingly vanished to some, as I inferred, darker place that ran even deeper than this. The quaint library he established with utmost care prior I found also in complete and utter disrepair, broken and robbed of the most tenebrious of tomes, books, scrolls and scriptures, with partly tattered volumes lying about, hither and thither pages soaked with whatever opaque fluid protruded from the stones. In this instant, one of the feebly restored bookshelves gave in with an echoing wooden moan before creakingly crashing in on itself. I spotted heat marks and singed surfaces everywhere around the yawning emptiness that used to be our base of hidden, dark operations.

And lastly, the two makeshift cages, now curiously vacant as opposed to be inhabited by two corpses, have fallen in on themselves, too. Just what had this raving madman done? What ghastly, final experiment did he prepare for in his raging insanity? Not stalling for much longer, I soon discovered the partly hidden entrance to the abysses of the Midden Dark. As determined as I was, such was the anxiety that crept up my spine, gnawing at the back of my mind.

Even now I find it hard to remember what exactly happened, as my mind lapses and reels at the unspeakableness of it all.

After my descent into the damp cavernous Midden Dark, I inadvertently had a familiar, yet alien feel towards this cold, dank place. I shifted through the icy vapours and stampeded across the hard, coarse snow when I caught myself asking this one question: Have I been here before?

Shrugging off my importuning premonition I pressed forward with fragile courage, bent on sending this evil to the planes of Oblivion. Soon I was traversing a frozen bridge of snow and stone, overhung by an astral radiance protruding magically from the ceiling somewhere, headed towards a dark tunnel whence I could discern queer chantings from in a language I didn't recognize.

Just as I figured out that the voice I fancied hearing in the distance to be Marcus' it suddenly dawned on me with supernatural clarity: My dream! This is where I was! The Midden Dark! I involuntarily asked myself what horror lay behind this black void of madness in these murkiest of depths of the College that took to frightening me so in my sleep. What abominable fate was lying in wait for me to stumble upon in the shadows, beyond all worldly adversities, a thing so absurdly terrible as to melt my brain in fear?

Notwithstanding these questions I proceeded, more quickly now, charging with growing impatience and pressure. I resolved I had nothing to lose so I might as well barge in, crashing whatever hideousness would unfold down there. I ran for a while, panting and sweating in exhaustion, when the strange light from my dream came into view at the end of the mound I so bravely set foot in. I stopped, catching my breath all the while listening in worry to these ghostly whispers and incantations I don't dare recite here, for there was a prehensile caliginosity to the sentences uttered.

It wasn't too late to turn back, I thought. I was still able to leave, free to go, to make a living elsewhere. Undisturbed from these cogitations I told myself what I'm here for - to settle the matter with this necromancer, ensuring either his demise or my own. Bracing myself for whatever lay beyond the weird white void that materialized itself to block my vision, I stepped through in grueling anticipation.

I stopped at once in utter disbelief after having transcended the opalescent mist. Before my eyes revealed itself a gargantuan chamber of prodigiously sized cavernous terrain, bathed in a dark, damp, putrid luminosity, the source of which being Marcus himself. Every attempt of me trying to convey this weird anti-colour to you would be in vain, an indescribable not-light spilling from his body. It appeared that Marcus had relocated the altar, the lectern, the enchanting table and his book being placed on the lectern to the center of this humongous space.

The black tome of his lay opened on the lectern, Marcus himself being situated standing on the partly dilapidated altar no doubt damaged by crude means of transportation. Beside him, to either side, floated the lifeless bodies, now mere dead flesh, of the red-clad mage and Shelivah's corpse, both of which once belonged to their souls. Marcus held in his hands two items of grievous portent. In his right, a wooden staff fashioned from a dark tree, stained with dried blood, on its tip was mounted the dubious black soul gem of terrifying power. In his left, he held a vial of opaque, steaming black liquid, thick with a variety of contents within, I presumed.

What unsettled me the most, however, was the fact that his appearance worsened into a twisted husk of the man he used to be. Evidently he had had discarded his College robe in favour of a black hooded garb that was already stained with foulness and decay, his eyes bulging and bloodshot, deep eye sockets of purple hue accentuating the almost comically famished face, even more pallid than I had previously witnessed.

He looked ravenous and sick, battered and broken far beyond repair. I had to despatch him at once and burn his godforsaken remnants afterwards. It was the only way.

I slowly approached him, step by step, when he noticed me and a contorted grin formed on his destable face, ripping his lips open to pour out quaint streams of what I assumed to be blood into his coarse, unkempt beard, coagulating at the air around it. Lifting his voice he, in a slurred and somewhat hard to decipher speech, relayed to me his plan on ascending to immortality, appointing me as his witness, praising my hitherto infallible servitude and invaluable help in his pursuits.

He went on to say he discovered a way to prolong his life indefinitely, far beyond what his twisted soul gem could achieve of its own, a ritual whereby his body would remain intact forever, giving him all the time in the world to research what must be uncovered in order to bring back the dead from all planes of existence. The key, he explained, was the vial with thick fluid he held, stating that its alchemical components were infused with restorational and necromantic properties. At last, he rambled on in his absent minded monologue, he would need two empty vessels for the soul transfusion during his _ascension_.

I didn't know what all this meant but I was convinced that I had to stop this raving madman from bringing never ending peril to this world. As for what transpired thusly I'll do my best to recall what happened, for it is a hazy memory, as if from a fever dream, a delirious mirage elaborately crafted to fool me.

I charged towards him, dagger in hand, the tip prepared to drive into his foul meat, ready to end his life before he made himself live forever, completely ignorant to the fact that he, at any time, could have launched a deathly Soul Siphon at me, potentially trapping me or even damning my existence to the dreaded soul cairn. Quick to advance, I observed how he ingested whatever vile liquid he prepared for himself, jumping now more than running over the frigid ground, sending small bits of debris flying in all directions as I went. Almost in reach, his staff began to emit a sinister black radiance, as if it was the opposite of light, casting gruesome shadows in its wake. It was this unlight which upset me the most, eating up the entire cavern, tinting it in impenetrable darkness.

I ran ever faster, my lungs already burning in exhaustion by my employment of such heavy breathing, my robe damp with cold sweat when my muscles grew weak and squeamish. In gathering my last bits of strength among the growing abyss that swallowed my surroundings, I raised my dagger with murderous intent. I jumped, time seemingly frozen, my feet floating in the air, my outstretched arm holding the dagger, its gleaming point very close to connecting with Marcus' heart.

But before the steel blade was able to penetrate his flesh and rend his skin, the tainted gloom transformed into a purple hue and an inexplicable force, a shockwave of evil energy and malicious power, threw me back, threw me crashing into the lectern causing his book to fall down onto the stained ice. In shoving my eyelids open with some difficulty post impact, catching a glimpse as to what this ritual contained by looking at his open book that lay right beside me, I gathered my consciousness again, realizing what Marcus was intent of doing.

By the gods! He was about to choose the path of unlife! Worse still, his methods and tools used would warp this unlife into something unnameable, far beyond to what lengths other necromancers go to. I lifted my gaze, paralyzing me in shock as it came to rest on Marcus. The unlight retracted from the rest of the cavern and flowed into his body, the soul gem glowing menacingly in the pure shadow of the ritual. His soul, held by the gem and alternating between it and the two floating bodies, at last released to conjoin with the solid black mists and the vapoury dark essences.

Shortly after, a palpable fear gripped my heart as I watched his eyes spring back to life, his body twisting and warping at the same time, his flesh bending, bones creaking, his blood running black from his orifices and pores, the torso crashing and cracking in madness and his face, horribly disfigured, eyes melting, skin drying, his whole body being sapped of the last vestiges of mortal life by a force more sinister than even Sithis knows.

A hideous abomination! A horror of unspeakable voids! A black, oozing, screeching lich was born, a being of the darkest recesses of the otherworldly planes beyond the veil I cannot stand my ground against. As if in delirious fever, I fervently pushed my broken body and mind past their respective limits and in a last effort to hamper this monstrosities' unholy ambitions I grabbed that damnable final page of this forbidden ritual and ripped it from the book in an act of resolute defiance. With newfound strength and quick blood running through my veins I lifted myself up from all fours two stand on my feet again, fleeing from these catacombs of terror.

My flight was accompanied by ghastly howls and deathly screeches as my heart raced, my consciousness about to fail me just as I reached the entrance to the upper Midden, a creeping darkness following my every step. Dazed and reeling, I was about to give in to my utter exhaustion, sort of catching my breath ascending the ladder, the tenebrous force seeping from the walls in the quarry around me.

With hasty motions and squeamish walking, I stumbled around the Midden, passing by the central chamber that was so hideously destroyed, making my way to the exit as fast as I possibly could. Chased by impossible things I managed to enter the Hall of Countenance yet again but knew there was no time for any rest. I fled the College premises, running over a couple of mages and witches in the process, thereby crashing into the College's gate with the last bit of my strength, shoving it open with humongous difficulty and descending down the slippery, gust-stricken path of the frozen bridge, at the end of which I was finally brought down to my knees.

My mind lapsed and I had trouble in keeping my consciousness afloat to at least make it to the inn or some other enclosed space when I made the mistake of turning around. In bewilderment I beheld a scenery of primordial damnation. In looking up at the College, I spied a black pillar of this heinous unlight form in its courtyard.

From it protruded myriads of tentacle-like appendages appearing to be made from pure, solid night, several meters in length, gripping and throwing and flailing around all those who so curiously followed me on the way out of the building with preternatural might and unrelenting force. Emerging from the pillar of unlight was the figure that used to be Marcus, now obfuscated by grim vapours and black mists.

He held up his staff with the brooding gem in his detestable countenance before uttering a phrase in an alien language I will not disclose.

After which a prehensile, antediluvian entity rose, clad in darkness and shrouded by astral dusts, looming menacingly about the horizon as my vision went dark and I was embraced by merciful oblivion.

I awoke in the Inn located in Winterhold, the innkeeper telling me I had been found lifeless in the snow right after whatever terror emerged from the College grounds. They told me it faded right after wreaking havoc on the courtyard, nowhere to be seen since. They asked me if I was okay and, upon my positive reply, remarked that for the bed and breakfast I had nothing to pay. That same day, I set out in returning to my homestead, staying as far away from Winterhold, and the blasted ground that was the College, as possible.

Now I am here, so many years later. I've never returned to that place, living my life elsewhere. Dear gods, I request absolution from my terrible crimes, even more so now that I've failed in averting the doom this evil will surely bring about. I've never forgotten about Marcus, but I haven't seen him since. The only thing I retain of his possessions to this very day is that last and final page I now hold in my hands. I've also never forgotten about that day, this catastrophic event. And never did I forget about Shelivah, whose fate I am responsible for.

Over the years, people have turned this story into legend, and legend faded into the mists of time. Today, nobody is talking about it anymore. I pray to the Divines the page may never be found, for the book _has_ been, lacking this page. It has now become known amongst practitioners of the black arts as the "Black Book of Unlight", never to be made whole lest more sinister powers from the darkest depths of the Aurbis and beyond will present themselves.

There is talk of dragons now, of vampire clans threatening to destroy peace, werewolves running about, hunting in the woods. The world has gone mad, I say, but let me tell you this:

There are darker things than Daedra in this world, bleaker things than death and in their madness, they shall never unfold to their true power. A might more ancient than the endless void itself, lying in wait to turn the tide and bring exitus to Mundus.

It shall never be known, it shall never be read; the last page of the Black Book of Unlight.


End file.
